


You Make Me Smile With My Heart

by MellytheHun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining Derek, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 05:59:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt: things you said when you thought I was asleep <br/>(READ THE BEGINNING NOTES)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Make Me Smile With My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This (http://loserchildhotpants.tumblr.com/post/50400829491) is the full song and this is the tone in which I love it delivered – this is how I picture Derek singing it in my head. Very slow and soft and whispery. I know that’s hard to imagine with a woman’s voice, though, so here (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jvXywhJpOKs) is a link to Chet Baker’s cover of this song. He has a low, sultry voice and he sings it beautifully, but skips the first verse. You might like to listen to both versions before reading and combine the sounds in your head. XD I don’t know. Whatever pleases you!

Beeping from a heart monitor, familiar and particularly slow, is the first thing Stiles can hear. There’s the brush of thin cotton sheets on the skin of his heavy legs, the body heat bleeding from his naked back onto the bed, a weight on his left hand, the laminated bracelet he’s wearing is tickling the hairs on his wrist, making him itchy. The powerful scent or flavor of saline in the back of his throat tells him he’s hooked up to an I.V, the soreness of his throat tells him he was intubated at some point.

He tries to recall how he came to be here, but he can’t and when he fights the emptiness in his head, clawing for answers, it only makes the dull throb of his head erupt into colossal pain. He hears the monitor tempo spike and then he’s able to register voices. Melissa is telling Scott and the Sheriff to relax and there’s something else.

There’s something firm and warm leaving his left hand, moving along his left temple and then the pain is vanishing, being drained from him. He hears his father tell someone that he didn’t know ‘they’ could do ‘that.’ Scott says something about Derek not overdoing it and then it finally processes in Stiles’ head.

Derek is there. Derek was holding his hand. Derek is taking his pain.

Stiles’ head is a thick, grey fog where he hardly knows himself. He wonders if anything is real, if he is who he thinks he is, but he’s not sure what that means. He intentionally tries to resurface a rough idea of his childhood, vaguely concerned he may have been in a coma for twenty years, but he can’t think of anything besides chasing a glossy soccer ball across the McCall’s driveway when he was nine. The sun had been beating down on the concrete and the back of Stiles’ sunburnt neck and he’d forgotten about the soccer ball when he happened upon a particularly pretty snail by the bushes.

Other than that, his heavily medicated and slow-moving brain is impressively unhelpful in way of providing information.

But when he realizes Derek is holding his hand, it feels significant. A part of his brain that doesn’t feel like it’s in his head supplies a muddy explanation;

_Derek good._

_Derek important._

A wave of fatigue washes over him and the sound goes out from the world.

* * *

 

 

Again, the beeping in the air. It’s slow. Stiles feels lethargic and he’s comfortably hot now. That weight is on his left hand again and his entire body feels dazed from the medication, like his blood is swirling in whirlpools in his veins.

A voice that Stiles can place as a nurse’s (Gloria? Gloria might be her name, but Stiles doesn’t feel sure of anything) whispers, “I’ve read some interesting articles on how speaking and singing to a person can speed their healing process.”

“Oh?”

That’s Derek’s voice. Stiles knows right away. His hand tingles and his ears warm up. He wants to smile and he tries to, but he’s pretty sure his face doesn’t move. Everything feels so massively heavy and numb - he doesn’t even feel anything unless he moves his muscles. He hasn’t wiggled his feet and he’s only half-sure they’re still there to wiggle, but his lethargy and dazedness keeps him from putting forth the effort to move.

“Mhm,” potentially Gloria responds, “Just a thought.”

A few beats of silence ensue after the door closes and Stiles can tell by the scent from the open window that it’s night time. The room feels empty around him, the quiet rumble of midnight driving comes in through the window with the warm summer air.

“My mother used to sing around the kitchen,” Derek shares softly, voice sounding rough from disuse, “She used to sing love songs.”

Stiles feels charmed. He imagines a tall, strong woman with a shape like his mother’s - the kind of weatherworn softness around the curves, the practiced turning of slim wrists and a patient smile. Maybe eyes like Derek’s. Maybe dark hair like his too.

“ _Behold the way our fine feathered friend, his virtue doth parade… thou knowest not, my dim-witted friend, the picture thou hast made…_ ”

Stiles thinks for a moment that he’s hearing the song in his own head, that he is imaging it within the picture he’s painted of Derek’s admission.

“ _Thy vacant brow, thy tousled hair conceal thy good intent. Thou noble upright truthful sincere and slightly dopey gent…_ ”

He realizes gradually that Derek is singing to him, using his deep, tired voice to lull Stiles into wellness.

“ _You’re my… funny valentine… sweet, comic valentine… you make me smile with my heart…_ ”

There’s a rustle of tree branches outside the window and a gentle breeze brushes over him. The summer-air-scent is thick, but light and fluffy and Stiles suddenly isn’t so concerned with where he is or how he got there.

“ _Your… looks are laughable… un-photographable, yet you’re my favorite work of art. Is your figure… less than Greek? Is your mouth… a little weak? When you open it… to speak, are you smart?_ ”

Derek’s voice is so tender, so sleepy and unhurried. His tone is so quiet, but not timid, just private. Like he might be singing to himself alone. Like he doesn’t realize Stiles is listening closely to every note.

“ _But, don’t change a hair for me… not if you care for me. Stay funny valentine, stay… and each day is Valentine’s Day_.”

A hand pets over his hair, pushing it back and cooling his forehead.

With a single sigh, he falls asleep again.

* * *

 

When, two days later, Stiles is sitting up in bed, eating Jell-o and complaining to Scott about how he should’ve had more back up because he was hunting Harpies for God’s sake - Derek walks in.

Stiles has been busy consoling his father’s worried brow and begging Scott to do his homework for him and milking Lydia for all the affection she’s willing to give him out of sympathy. That's his lame excuse as to why he didn't even slightly consider what he might say when he next saw Derek.

He doesn’t want to just blurt out that Derek has been with him every night, especially not in front of his father (who is suspiciously wearing a very knowing look anyway). Trying to be suave and inconspicuous, Stiles smiles sweetly at Derek, cocks a brow and greets,

“Hey there, Valentine.”

He’s thrilled to watch the shade of red spill over Derek’s cheeks and into his ears and it makes the heart monitor blip a little faster. Lydia glances between them in fascination while Scott makes an expression similar to that of a confused puppy.

Stiles watches Derek swallow, like he’s embarrassed, like he’s as vulnerable as Stiles is feeling.

“Hey.” Scott cocks a brow and asks, “you’re just gonna let him call you that? I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you let him get away with nicknaming you.”

Derek smirks as he takes a seat, “I’ll get him back for it later, when he’s not bound to a hospital bed and there’s less reason to feel sorry for him.”

Stiles looks scandalized and Scott laughs while the Sheriff shakes his head with a fond smile.

Lydia rolls her eyes, looking pleased, “you two will need to kill this sexual tension eventually.”

Scott’s laughter grows louder while the Sheriff gives Stiles a knowing, amused look and Derek becomes endlessly fascinated with the ceiling.

* * *

 

A week later, as Scott is running across the hospital parking lot to pull the car up and retrieve Stiles from his unnecessary wheelchair, Derek helps him stand. He’s got an arm tucked under Stiles’ and Stiles is pretty certain that Derek is sucking away the pain of standing on his sore, unused legs. As he watches Scott’s car approach, he smiles at the cement ground and mutters,

“Thanks. It was like a lullaby.”

He feels Derek tense up next to him and against him. He thinks that if Derek ignores him, glares at him or claims not to know what he’s talking about, that they’ll never discuss it again. And he’ll have a better understanding of where he and Derek stand with one another.

To Stiles’ surprise, Derek lets out a shaky sigh and replies,

“Anytime.”

Stiles turns his head to face Derek and finds that they’re very close. His heart bumps nervously and Derek looks anxious too, but sort of pleasantly so. Like he might be feeling what Stiles is feeling.

“Really?”

Derek contemplates Stiles’ earnest face for a while and then responds surely, “Really.”

Too deeply moved to smile, Stiles glances back and forth into Derek’s eyes until Scott pulls up and chirps, “Come on, Thing One and Thing Two! We gotta get to Lydia’s welcome home party on time or she’ll skin me!”

When they pull apart and Stiles stretches his legs out over the backseat, he watches the fluster of red beat along the back of Derek’s neck the whole way home.


End file.
